Karen smiled to herself before wincing for a second time. ‘Could you give me a hand to get there?’ Karen asked the security guard. Without answering, he took her arm and the two of them walked slowly towards the office.
‘Good afternoon,’ Eve said, when Karen was sitting comfortably and the guard had left the room. ‘How is it I can help you?’
Karen wasn’t sure how to answer. She hadn’t expected to get past the receptionist, let alone into the office. She thought quickly. ‘I want to know what you are doing about the rising number of homeless people on the streets in Southampton. It’s nearly Christmas, and it’s pretty bloody cold out there, believe me.’
‘You’re living on the streets? In your condition? There are a number of shelters in the city. Given your pregnancy, you’d get priority shelter for the night. Do you want me to put you in touch with…’
‘Shelters are a solution to the problem, but they don’t tackle the cause. I want to know what you are doing to prevent good people losing their homes.’
‘I can assure you,’ Eve began, but stopped when she saw Karen’s face scrunched up in pain. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Karen lied. ‘Can I use your toilet?’
Eve quickly rushed to Karen’s side and helped her to her feet, before leading her to a door at the side of the office. Karen entered and locked the door behind her.
‘Do you need me to call someone for you?’ Eve called through the door.
Karen didn’t answer, instead making retching noises. She found a small glass on the basin, quietly filled it with water and then poured it into the toilet in time to the noise she was making. Eve moved away from the door and considered whether to phone for an ambulance. Karen pulled a cigarette lighter out of her pocket and, carefully standing on the rim of the toilet, she held the flame up to the sensor on the ceiling. She held it there for fifteen seconds until she heard the fire alarm begin to sound in the office.
Just what I need, Eve thought to herself. She moved back to the bathroom and urgently tapped on the door. ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ she said. ‘The fire alarm is going off. You need to come out of there. I need to escort you from the building.’
‘I can’t move,’ Karen lied. ‘I think the baby is coming.’ She screamed out in pain. ‘You need to find someone to help me.’
Eve rushed from her office, grabbing the arm of a colleague as she did. ‘Is this fire real?’ she asked. ‘I have a pregnant woman in labour in my office.’
The stranger shrugged and kept moving. Eve made her way to the reception desk and saw the security guard who had escorted Karen to the office. ‘I need help,’ she said urgently. ‘The pregnant girl is stuck in my bathroom. Please, come quickly.’
The guard told Eve to go outside and wait at the evacuation point and that he would go and help Karen. Eve did as she was instructed and watched the guard jog back towards her office. She went and stood next to the huddled masses in the car park and was relieved to see the guard emerge five minutes later, with Karen leaning on his shoulder, whilst clutching her bump. Eve walked over to them and asked if she should call an ambulance.
‘It’ll be quicker to put me in a taxi,’ Karen said. ‘If these are real contractions, it could be hours before it arrives.’
‘Do you not know what you’re having?’
‘No,’ Karen replied. ‘But if it’s a girl, I might just call her Eve.’
Eve passed her a business card. ‘I don’t like the thought of you raising your baby on the streets. Will you call me when he or she has arrived, and I’ll do whatever I can to get you somewhere safe? Will you do that for me?’
‘I will. Thanks for listening to me.’
Eve and the guard remained with a panting Karen until the taxi arrived and then they helped her in. The security guard handed Karen a twenty pound note and told the driver to take her to the hospital. Karen thanked them both and waited until they had vanished from view before she removed Eve’s laptop from beneath her coat. She pulled out the phone White had given her and dialled his number.
‘It’s me,’ she gasped.
‘Did you plant the tracking device for me?’
Karen smirked. ‘I did better than that. I nicked the old bag’s laptop for you. If she’s hiding anything, it’ll be on there. Meet me at the General Hospital and I’ll give it to you.’
26
LONDON, UK
14:45 (G.M.T.)
Dylan’s plan to break free of the wooden chair, by crashing it to the floor, had proved less than successful. The first fall had been both painful and futile. He now understood that the plastic cable tie securing his wrists together had also been secured to a wooden strut in the frame of the chair. As he had rocked back and forth, he hadn’t foreseen that his arm and shoulder would connect with the laminate floor before the chair frame did. His fall had done no damage to the chair whatsoever. What was worse, with the chair now on its side and, with his ankles bound to the chair legs, he had no leverage to correct the chair’s position. He had spent the last half an hour, trying to find sufficient grip to push himself and the chair back upright; his feet simply couldn’t grip on the laminate floorboards.
The only movement he had made was away from the table where the laptop had been. He was now on his side, adjacent to one of the walls. He had been in the same position for the last fifteen minutes, panicking.
At two thirty the news had been read out on the radio station he was listening to. The presenter had confirmed that the police had received an anonymous tipoff that an ISIS convert was planning to detonate a bomb in a high-rise block of flats along London’s landscape. The presenter confirmed that the police were taking the threat seriously, and that an emergency COBRA session had been initiated between the security services and the Metropolitan Police. The decision had been taken to warn the public of the threat to limit the footfall in and around the capital. The reporter confirmed that the police had been made aware of the identity of the suicide bomber, but were not going to release it at this time.
Dylan had known The Chairman had been serious when he had earlier warned what was going to happen, but it hadn’t really sunk in until he had heard it confirmed on the radio. Not only was he about to die, he was going to go out in a most hideous way. He wasn’t a religious man, and had never really considered that he might die one day. That his death was now imminent filled him with regret.
It was crazy to think that the decisions he had made in life had culminated in this way. Could he have made different life choices? Sure, but couldn’t everybody? If he had known that his actions were going to result in him being blown up in a flat by an egocentric maniac, of course he would have made different choices. The irony that his actual death would mirror that of his fake death only weeks earlier, was not lost on him.
It wasn’t fair.
He knew nothing of what The Cadre were planning, nor who they were, yet the decision had been made that it was too risky to allow him to live. He no longer cared what The Chairman and his cronies had done in the past, nor what they had planned for the future. His only wish right now was to see Maria and Elena again once more. Despite hearing O’Connor give the kill order at the airport, something deep inside told him that they were still alive.
Both of them.
It was all the motivation he needed.
With a surge of strength he hadn’t expected, he pushed his sore shoulder into the floor and propelled his body up, rolling onto his knees. His cheek slammed into the floor, but he ignored the ache it caused. He wasn’t much better off, but at least he was now facing the right way. He took several short breaths as he silently counted to five. Then with all his might he forced his neck upwards, his head swinging back as he did. He pushed his knees into the floor next, rolling backwards onto his toes, before attempting to straighten his legs. He wobbled backwards as his feet flattened against the laminate floor, but his knees were still bent forwards. He could feel gravity pushing him back towards the floor
. With one final exertion he tilted his head back as far as he could and suddenly he was falling backwards. The chair’s rear legs hit the floor first at a sixty degree angle. They snapped at the joints as the full force of his weight landed back on the chair seat. The chair continued to fall, the back connecting with the wall behind him, before slipping to the floor.
Dylan opened his eyes. He was still attached to the chair but he was now looking up at the ceiling. He could feel the chair frame and his own mass pressing on his wrists. It was agony, but he had finally made progress. His legs were dangling in front of him. With all his might he forced his feet towards the ground, his thighs pressing hard against the chair seat. He heard a snap as the seat broke free of the frame, and his legs thumped flat on the floor.
He rolled onto his side and managed to stand. Both his wrists ached from the fall, but he was free. Now all he needed to do was cut the cable tie around his wrists and the two securing the fractured chair legs to his ankles. He moved to the kitchen area of the flat, hunting desperately for some kind of knife he could use. The drawers were empty, save for a tin opener and a corkscrew. He continued to look for something sharp. He moved through to the tiny bathroom, hoping to find a pair of nail scissors, but there was no bathroom cabinet.
He entered the bedroom and saw an open suitcase on the bed. He stopped. A slew of multi-coloured wires were protruding from a sand-coloured block. A large digital timer was counting down. In sixty-five minutes it was going to reach zero. He backed out of the room, not wanting to disturb the device.
He returned to the kitchen. He spotted a used milk bottle on the draining board. He hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d looked. The bottle was out of his hands’ grasp. He turned back around to face the bottle, hoping to find something long he could use to move it closer.
Nothing.
He pushed his groin against the counter’s edge and began to bow forward. He leaned in as far as he could. He could see his breath fogging up the glass but it was just out of reach. He straightened up again.
There had to be another way.
He turned around again, looking for something he could use. He leaned back against the counter. He felt his bottom brush the counter’s smoothed edge. He realised what he had to do. Standing as close to the counter as he could, he jumped up and back, his bottom crashing down on the counter. The milk bottle wobbled on the drainer. He shuffled backwards until he felt his fingers brush against the glass. He gripped the bottle’s neck and dragged it as he shuffled forward once more, before allowing himself to slip off the edge of the counter. He dropped the bottle. It toppled to the floor, but didn’t smash. He kicked it as hard as he could and the bottle flew out of the kitchen before colliding with the hall wall.
It shattered on impact.
Dylan rushed over and fell to his knees, reaching out for a large jagged shard. He found a suitable piece and attempted to grip it in the fingers of his right hand. Bending his wrist upwards, he began to rub the shard against the plastic cable tie. He couldn’t see if he was making progress, but did feel the jagged edge cutting his fingers. Warm blood began to drip down on his left wrist. He ignored the pain and kept moving the shard against the plastic. The plastic suddenly snapped and the shard scraped his wrist. He winced at the sting, but welcomed the relief of his arms returning to their normal position.
He dropped the shard he had been using and found a larger one that wouldn’t cut his fingers. He went to work on the plastic around his ankles and was free within five minutes.
He suddenly realised the radio was still on when he heard his name read out.
‘The police say that Taylor was presumed dead following a fire at his flat in West London several weeks ago, however, this new evidence would suggest otherwise. The police spokesperson has described Taylor as a petty thief with a string of cautions for antisocial behaviour, who also spent several months in prison last year having been convicted of assault. The package received by the police, which was left outside of Paddington police station, included travel documents in Taylor’s name, as well as a videotape of Taylor confessing to today’s proposed bombing. The police are currently studying traffic cameras to try and pinpoint where Taylor is. The public are being warned to avoid the capital if they don’t need to be here. Inevitably, today’s announcement is causing significant delays on public transport.’
Dylan walked back towards the bedroom. This time he walked right up to the suitcase. The clock was still ticking down to the four o’clock deadline. He leaned in, trying to see if there was any kind of off switch. The truth was: he didn’t know what he was looking for. He wished that Aaron was with him: he’d know what to do. But alas, Dylan knew nothing about explosives. The last thing he wanted was for anybody else to be injured as a result of his actions, but he was powerless to prevent the explosion. Frustrated, he left the bedroom and moved towards the front door. He opened it and tore out into the fresh air.
He knocked on every door as he ran, shouting, ‘There’s a bomb. Get out! Get out!’
Nobody came to their doors.
He raced down the stairs and out into the estate. He ran to a public phone box and picking up the handset, he dialled ‘999’.
‘Police,’ he bellowed into the phone as it connected. ‘My name is Dylan Taylor. The bomb is…’ He trailed off as he realised he had no idea where he was. ‘The bomb is at this location. Trace this call and send the bomb squad. You have under an hour.’
He dropped the handset and left the booth. His fingers were still bleeding quite badly and he was beginning to feel light-headed. He ran out of the estate and turned left, desperately hoping he would find some shops before he lost too much more blood.
27
FALLON, NEVADA, US
07:00 (P.S.T.)
Aaron turned the car stereo off so he could concentrate on the directions being dictated by the female voice of his navigation system. He stifled a yawn. The sun was just breaking on the horizon out of the passenger’s side window as he continued his journey south along Highway 95, also known as the Veterans Memorial Highway. He had already missed the turn he should have taken, extending the fifteen minute car journey from the motel by ten minutes. He’d never grown accustomed to driving abroad. He didn’t mind so much that the car’s controls were all in reverse, what bothered him was having to ignore his natural instinct to turn left at a roundabout.
It had taken the best part of ten hours plus stops to drive from San Diego to the Comfort Inn motel where he’d spent the night. He’d checked in for two nights, not knowing how long he would be in the state. He really hoped that Victoria hadn’t dragged him here on a false trail. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, the primary one being: why was she in the US?
When he had last spoken to her, she had warned him not to dig too deep into Troy’s final movements. She had seemed genuinely scared and had wanted no part of it. He had understood her concerns, so her phone call yesterday had been quite unexpected. She’d told him she had found someone who could help track the people responsible for Troy’s death. If she was right, it was a huge step forward. Prior to meeting Dylan on Monday, his search into Troy’s past had yielded little. It felt too coincidental that the pace of his investigation had accelerated so rapidly. Despite his misgivings, he was certain he could trust Victoria, and so, if she said this person could help, who was he to argue?
He had sent her a text message from his room last night to advise he had arrived but was too tired to meet up with her straight away. She had replied, telling him to rest and meet her for breakfast at seven. She had given him the address of a diner about a mile from the Fallon Naval Air Base. That’s where he was now heading.
‘In one hundred yards, take the exit for Union Lane,’ the woman’s voice barked. ‘In eight hundred metres, turn right onto Weaver Road,’ she said as he left the exit.
Aaron continued to follow her instructions and it wasn’t long before he was pulling up outside the diner. He parked and headed in, spotting Victori
a immediately. She was sitting in a booth by herself, but was busy studying the menu.
‘Hi,’ he offered, as he approached.
‘Aaron,’ she said, smiling, instantly forgetting the menu. She slid out of the booth and pecked him twice on the cheek. He blushed slightly as he took in the scent of her perfume.
The diner was narrow, yet long, reminiscent of a train carriage, with a visible kitchen on one side, overlooking a counter that stretched the length of the far wall. A dozen or so bar stools were evenly distributed along the counter’s edge, but only three of them were occupied. There were six booths lining the glass front of the building, and Victoria was sitting in the one furthest from the entrance. The booth seats were lined in bright red leather, as if the designer had been opting for a retro theme. It was tacky, yet not out of place. Each booth was accompanied by a playlist of music, and songs could be selected for a quarter a time. Aaron wondered how many people wasted their change on choosing specific songs, despite the fact that the diner’s overhead speaker system was playing songs at random anyway.
‘Can I get you two some coffee?’ a waitress asked when they were both seated.
‘Black, no sugar,’ Aaron said without looking up.
‘I’ll have orange juice, please,’ Vitoria said.
The waitress scribbled the order on a pad and headed for the counter.
‘You look great,’ Aaron began. ‘I can’t believe you’re over here. I have so many questions.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ she said. ‘I see you’ve been asking questions of the wrong people,’ she added, nodding at the bruises on his face.
‘Oh this? I was in a car accident on Monday night. It’s fine; it hardly hurts now.’
Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3) Page 17